


where i found you

by bugsbetty



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fluff without Plot, Mild Smut, School Dances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 12:08:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugsbetty/pseuds/bugsbetty
Summary: Betty has one foot out the door when the song starts. And, in spite of herself, she pauses. Because really? She’s going to be murdered to Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas?(In which no murders whatsoever occur, for once).





	where i found you

**Author's Note:**

> Bughead Secret Santa! Prompt: "I love happy, sexy, fluffy..."
> 
> For the-darkesthour on Tumblr <3 Much love to you!
> 
> Written in the wee hours of morning, to many a Christmas song.

It’s after the lights come on. After most of the students have zipped winter coats over dresses and dress shirts and vanished out the doors, and the gaudy decorations are neatly stowed away. The Pussycats pack their instruments up and head out into the swirling snow. The other volunteers make their slow exits. Weatherbee goes off to lock away the proceeds from the snack bar. 

Betty’s left standing in the middle of the gym, exhausted. Her hair’s a mess, frayed curls escaping what was once a polished updo. Being on the dance committee really is a full-time job: her throat is parched, she’s damp with sweat from running around all night, her feet hurt. She lets out a long, slow breath and looks around.

There’s nothing left to do. The place looks like the inside of Cindy Lou Who’s house after the Grinch robbed it - on the walls are left nothing but hooks and some wire. She pushes flyaway hairs back from her face, stifling a yawn. She should get home. The snow’s been falling thick and heavy, and this place is super eerie when it’s empty.

Just as she’s about to grab her bag and coat, she hears a sound. It comes from the far end of the gym. The audio room. She freezes, stock still, eyes widening in horror. She can hear her heart pounding in her ears. _Not fucking now_ , her brain groans. There’s no _time_ for more… murderers, or whatever. Not tonight. She’s finally gotten the stupid winter dance over with, Christmas Eve is in four days, she’s supposed to be on the cusp of a very relaxing vacation. Slowly, she continues reaching for her jacket. So far, no psychopathic figures have emerged, so maybe it was just… the furnace kicking in?

Her worst fears are confirmed when the audio system bursts back to life. She very nearly leaps out of her skin as the speakers crackle, the sound of an aux cord being plugged in. Hastily, she gathers her jacket into her arms and grabs a tight hold of her purse, turning on her heel, strolling for the exit. She is _not_ about to stand around and wait to find out what the ominous perpetrator is up to. She enjoys horror films as much as the next kid, but she’s had quite enough of living in them, and this scene? The blonde girl in an empty school, chased by psychological horror over the PA system, running down empty hallways? Panicked, right into the arms of her killer? Nope. Not her. This guy can find some other damsel.

She has one foot out the door when the song starts. And, in spite of herself, she pauses. Because _really_? She’s going to be murdered to _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_?

Someone clears their throat behind her. Betty winces, clutches her coat closer to her chest, biting her lip. Turns to face the music…

And desperately wishes she had something to throw - preferably a non-lethal object, because standing there, in his ill-fitting suit and carefully positioned beanie, one lock of hair swooping haphazardly across his brow, is Jughead Jones.

“Leaving so soon?” he quips, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk. It takes all of Betty’s strength to maintain a steady glare; he knows her too well, can disarm her in seconds if she isn’t careful.

“Uh, yeah, I heard a _murderer_ in the audio room,” she huffs, jabbing a finger toward the door behind him. But relief washes over her, and the tightness eases from her shoulders. There is no danger, only a misguided attempt at surprise. Jughead, at least, has the wherewithal to look sheepish.

“I guess sneaking around probably wasn’t the best idea, given the circumstances...” he begins with a wince, scratching the back of his neck. Betty gives him a sharp look.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“But,” he drops his hand back down and tilts his head, grin growing wider. Turning up the charm, she’s onto him, and she’ll be damned if she’s going to let him see that it’s working. “Now that we both realize I’m _not_ a murderer… I was kind of hoping you’d like to dance?”

“I was just on my way out,” she tries, committed to her act. He raises an eyebrow.

“But baby, it’s cold outside.”

She sighs, because otherwise she might start laughing, and he knows he’s won. He wears a deeply satisfied expression as she sets her coat back down, and her purse, and dusts off her hands.

“Okay,” she can’t help the smile that fights its way across her lips, “you may have one dance.”

“One and a half,” he steps forward, offering a hand, “this song’s halfway done.”

She curls her fingers around his own. Tilts her chin up, still defiant as he pulls her close. Only melts into him a little when he presses a kiss to the side of her head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, nudging his cheek against her hair, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“This was very romantic of you,” she accepts the apology, sliding her free arm up to his bicep and tucking her mouth into his shoulder.

“You’re always too busy to enjoy the actual dance,” he points out, “so I thought it’d be nice.”

They start swaying, stepping slowly with the beat. The gym is so ugly with all the lights on and the decorations gone. Betty closes her eyes against it, conjuring up something better. A dimly lit ballroom, thick red curtains. Big, open windows, the kind you can see the stars sparkling through. She smiles.

“This is more like us, anyway.”

He hums in agreement, warm and steady. She lets herself relax. The melody of the violins pours down around them, and an intense love rushes through Betty’s heart. She curls her fingers in the fabric of his sleeve, nestles her nose closer to his neck. He lets out a soft laugh, and tightens his arm around her. They turn carefully, or he does - her feet follow his, wherever they go. She revels in the bliss of it; so _this_ is what it’s like to play the leading lady in a teen rom com. It’s the moment you always wait for, when the two kids finally come together… except it’s like that every time, for her. Every time she sees him. Ever since that very first kiss.

Too soon, the song reaches its close

“ _And have yourself… a merry little Christmas, now,_ ” he sings quietly into her hair. She smiles. They slow as the music fades out, and there’s a pause between this song and the next. Betty holds her breath, savouring the moment. The smell of his shampoo. The stiff fabric of his suit against her chin. The closeness of his embrace. The way she feels wholly and impossibly _safe_.

And then a jaunty little tune picks up, and Betty grins, pulling back to look at him.

“Not all sentiment, huh?”

He laughs.

“We have to have fun, too!”

He straightens up, positioning his free hand on her waist as Burl Ives begins his rendition of _A Holly Jolly Christmas_. She raises a curious eyebrow, and he shrugs.

“I watched some YouTube videos. About dancing. Please don’t laugh too much.”

“Oh, I _definitely_ can’t make any promises there,” she tightens her grip on his arm, squaring her shoulders. She ignores the heat she can feel spreading to her cheeks - she’s not-so-secretly quite pleased that he’s gone to all this effort for her. She shouldn’t be surprised, but she is. Pleasantly so. How privileged she is, to see this side of him so few do, to be so blatantly loved.

He starts into a simple two-step rhythm, and she catches on easily, watching him as he watches their feet. Her lips pull into a fond smile at the way his hair falls further into his face, the concentrated scrunch of his eyebrows, the way he curls his bottom lip under his teeth when he’s really focused. She enjoys the moment until he glances up and catches her looking. He stumbles a little, expression clearing into one of amusement. She snickers.

“I _said_ don’t _laugh_ ,” he warns, but he’s grinning, too, and his voice has gone all soft.

“I _wasn’t_ ,” she argues playfully back. He narrows his eyes at her, though they never lose their little, mischievous glint. His feet find the rhythm again, miraculously, and he leads her around the gym. Confidence growing, he even manages to execute a little spin. Betty laughs again as she ducks under his arm. A skip finds its way into their steps, and they might miss a beat or two, but neither of them are keeping score.

Without any real warning, Jughead gives a little jump, chanting along with the song: “It’s the best time of the year!”

Betty, caught off guard, stumbles into him before quickly righting herself, squeezing his hand.

“You’re getting wild!”

“Just wait for the finale!” he grins, and for a moment he looks absolutely boyish. It’s like a sun breaking through light cloud, this joyous, youthful soul he so often keeps hidden. Usually, it reveals itself in the briefest of glimpses - muttering a corny joke under his breath, wiggling his eyebrows to ask for a helping of her snacks at lunch, the expression on his face when she catches him checking her out. Somewhere beneath all the hardship life’s handed him, he’s still a _boy_. And she loves him for it, ever more.

They dance awhile longer before he picks up the tune again, adding faux depth and vibrato to his voice.

“Oh, ho! The mistletoe, hung where you can see! Somebody waits for you, kiss ‘er once for me!”

She’s mid laugh when he leans to steal that kiss, smiling firmly against her lips. She makes a sound in her throat, kissing him back, throwing her arms around his neck. He kisses her again, and again, until she pulls away.

“The song only said once!” she teases.

He chases her lips.

“Stuff the song, Betty.”

She grins, and lets him catch her. His hands curl around her sides, fingers pressing beneath her shoulder blades. She stands up on her toes, leaning into him. Her fingers find their way to his hair, tangling through thick locks. They’re not dancing any more. His mouth is soft and warm against hers, he gives her kisses that linger. Adoration whispers through her like a sigh. All at once, she wants to be back at the trailer, shoving off his suit jacket, unbuttoning his shirt. She wants to toss the beanie, wants him to unzip her dress and let it fall in a pile on the floor. Wants him to look at her in that way he does, somewhere between infatuation and desperation, and always, always love.

“Take me home,” she mumbles against his lips. He kisses her again, hard, hands slipping down to her hips. Squeezing, thumbs against the bone. And then pulls back, verging on breathless.

“I can do that. I can definitely do that.”

She smirks, reaching to stroke his jaw. Bing Crosby’s crooning over the speakers, now, soft and low. Jughead gazes down at her, his eyes dark. They offer to fill all of the hollow, wanting spaces inside of her. Her teeth catch on her lip. If only Weatherbee weren’t in the other room… she slides her hands down to his chest, giving him a little push. Can’t trust herself to pull away, otherwise.

“Don’t forget your iPod.”

“What?” he blinks, and then straightens up, looking back toward the audio room. “Oh, right.”

She pulls on her jacket as he scrambles to reclaim the device, zipping it up to her chin. From one pocket she tugs her toque, from the other her gloves. He reappears in his own coat. He still hasn’t fixed his hair. She can’t imagine a life without him.

 

 

The ride back is slow, the snow thick, the roads unsalted. The air smells wholly of winter, and it dusts their cheeks ruddy pink. Betty falls in love with the dark shapes of the trees; the Robert Frost of it all. They pull into the trailer park and stop outside his dad’s place, cutting the engine, letting silence soak back into the world. Betty closes her eyes and listens to the static of the snow. Their boots crunch toward the door.

He shrugs off his jackets and watches as she peels off her gloves, unzips her coat, unravels her scarf. She likes to imagine that his arms ache for her. She isn’t sure if she wants slow, agonizing or rushed, dirty, desperate. When she steps close, her hands decide for her, scrambling to undo the buttons of his shirt, tilting her head back when he ducks to kiss her throat. His skin is smooth, taught beneath her palms. She runs her fingers over the muscles of his shoulders as she shoves offending fabric away. His arms wrap around her, fumbling for her zipper as he tries to pull her toward his room. She laughs, bites back her pleasure, stumbles with him. Her skin prickles where he reveals it to the cold. By the time they make it to the bed, her dress is on the floor, his mouth is on her chest, her nails are scraping over his back.

He takes her, inch by inch. Moment by moment. She could go insane. He sends her there, to the very edge of it, and she spills over with a quiet gasp that might as well be a scream in the deadness of the night. Afterward she pulls him close, a tangle of heated limbs, buries her face in his damp hair. He laughs, breathless, spent. She brims with pride. She did that to him. Her hands still wander over his skin, across his back, his jaw, his hips, she can’t help herself. _Boy, my boy_ , it’s all there in her head.

“I love you,” she tells him, “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” he replies, dragging one eye open. She wants to drown in that eye. “I might love you the most anyone ever has.”

She kisses his cheek below his eye, pressing her nose against the scorch of his skin.

“I definitely love you the most anyone ever has. And more.”

He grins. Would it be weird if she kissed his teeth?

She isn’t sure. She pulls him closer. Her heart is brighter than the moon.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for reading, and happy holidays! Let me know what you thought - what did you like best? Any lines you enjoyed? What could I do better next time? Are there any other stories like this you'd like to see?


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